


your happy ending

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonverbal Frisk, One Year Later, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sharing a Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5895667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day in fall, Frisk makes a list of things to do. Chara doesn't understand it, but, well, everyone has things that they don't want to talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your happy ending

**Author's Note:**

> wow a fic by me that isn't just about asriel and chara for once what is the world coming to
> 
> I dunno how I feel about this but I'm tired of working on it so

Frisk has a list.

By now, the two of you have had a lot of practice when it comes to walling off your individual thoughts, allowing for some semblance of privacy between you. Thus, you have no clue what's going through their head when they're writing it. You see them taking out the pen and paper, and you see them fold it carefully and place it in their backpack when they're done, but you don't know what's on it - they actually close their eyes when making it, the cheater - and they refuse to answer any of your questions, only smiling mysteriously before changing the subject to something else entirely.

In the end, you decide it's nothing you should worry about. Clearly it's a secret, and it's not like Frisk would ever keep a secret that could hurt somebody. You can look the other way for now, especially because they've done the same for you more times than you can count. Besides, you kind of owe them for all those nightmares they've been saddled with. If they're going to be stuck with you living in their brain for the rest of their life, then the least you can do is let them have their secrets; you're trying to be a good mindmate, even if 'being good' is not exactly your forte.

So, yeah. You don't think about it, not until one bright Monday after school. There's a teacher's meeting, and as a result, Frisk doesn't get their usual ride home with Toriel. Normally they'd just walk alone, but this time, they don't do that. Instead, they wander out into the playground and over by the swings. They take a seat, letting their legs dangle as they shrug off their backpack and set it on their lap.

 _Are you waiting for Toriel?_ you ask. 

 _Nope,_ they say. _Just checking something._  

From their bag, they draw the list. You eagerly push forward so that you can read it, but much to your disappointment, there's nothing that looks even remotely secret written on it. 

     * go to Muffet's café  
     * write Mettaton a proper fan letter   
     * send Napstablook my mix  
     * invite MK over for a sleepover  
     * cook something with Papyrus and Undyne  
     * tell Sans a joke he hasn't heard before (might be tricky)  
     * movie night with Alphys  
     * eat pie with dad  
     * tell mom I love her

 _What's this?_ you ask, curious despite yourself.

You feel them smile, and they answer, _just some stuff to do._

You guess you shouldn't be surprised. After all, Frisk's entire purpose in life seems to be doing nice things for other people. Still, you can't help but feel a tiny bit let down that it was something so very ordinary after all. 

They send a text to Toriel saying that they might be late, and then they slip the paper back into their bag, standing as they do so. _Let's go._

Muffet's café is small, sandwiched between a family-run convenience store and a thrift shop on the wrong side of downtown. It's the kind of place that would likely go unnoticed in most cities, but it's reputation as a café staffed entirely by monsters quickly managed to attract a crowd of drooling regulars. Yet for some reason, Frisk doesn't seem to mind the hoards of sweaty xenophiles and regularly stops by to grab a donut or even just to drop a coin or two in the vaguely threatening tip jar. They rarely stop inside for longer than a moment, though, and so it catches you a little off guard when they take a seat this time.

Servers dressed in beruffled aprons slither and scuttle about amongst the crowd of ogling humans. You'd feel claustrophobic were it not for the protection offered by your place inside of Frisk, but if any of them get too close, you'll break their arms. 

 _What are we doing here?_ you ask as Frisk sips their cider. Surely there's a limit to how tolerant even they can be, and you'd say this is definitely pushing it. 

 _Having a snack,_ they reply. 

You let yourself seep through into their taste buds, sneaking just a hint of cider. The flavour's muted as always, more a memory of taste than taste itself.  _You don't have to sit here with a bunch of nerds to have a snack,_ you point out.  _  
_

_But I want to._

Well. All right, then. 

They linger there for nearly an hour, smiling quietly at their donut as they break off the occasional crumb and pop it in their mouth. They don't even have a book with them, apparently content with simply watching the crowd, as though the crowd is anything particularly interesting.

At one point they take a pen and paper from their bag, scribbling a note to the server asking about Muffet. "She's busy at the moment," the rock monster replies, and Frisk nods before returning to their cider.

When they're finished, they drop a fistful of gold into the tip jar. The spider at the register somehow gives a little squeak of delight. 

 _Feeling generous?_ you ask when they step back out onto the street. The sun is setting now, painting everything in sight orange and gold, and Frisk replies _you got it_ as they lift their hand to shade their eyes. 

Hmm.

Cider and a donut. No big deal. But their having stayed so long _was_ a little strange, especially since they'd been alone. And that tip - Frisk always tipped at Muffet's, but never _that_ much.

 _What exactly was the point of that?_ you ask. 

 _I just wanted to see the café again,_ Frisk answers.

They say it like they won't be going back, you think with an internal frown. But the café isn't closing. Nobody is moving. They'd asked if they could see Muffet, but they hadn't pushed for it very hard, and so whatever they had wanted to see her about clearly wasn't that important. They'd seemed satisfied just offering their business and leaving it at that. 

As Frisk begins the long walk home, you puzzle over what just happened and Frisk counts every bird they see along the way, pointing each one out to you and asking your opinion, until finally you give in and start counting birds as well. They spot more than you, but then you spot an ultra-rare striped red eagle that counts for fifty, and Frisk admits defeat.

They don't say a word to Toriel about their stop at the café that evening. They eat dinner, same as always, albeit slightly less of it than usual, and afterwards, you help Frisk write their fan letter to Mettaton's band, offering suggestions of appropriately fannish things to say. 

In the morning, they drop the envelope off in the mailbox at the corner, smiling wistfully as they do so before continuing on their way. But the thing is, the letter hadn't really _said_ anything. Nothing sentimental, anyway, simply wishing them the best on tour. No mention of a future visit, no details about their daily life. It hadn't really said that much at all. Nothing that should have earned that smile from them, anyway. 

That evening sets the tone for the entire week. Everything is basically the same, but Frisk's regular activities are interspersed with little errands from their list - tasks that might have seemed in-character for them anyways, but which they've inexplicably assigned a new, unsettling importance. Or maybe _you're_ the one assigning them importance - maybe Frisk has _always_ kept lists like this and you've just never noticed them before. But wouldn't you have noticed?

One day, Frisk emails Napstablook a mix they made that mostly sounds like ambient wailing and electronica. The next, they bring MK home for a sleepover and spend the evening cooking dinner with Papyrus and Undyne, whom Frisk had specially requested for babysitting duty. The resulting meal tastes awful - Frisk can barely choke it down, and it's definitely one meal that you have no interest in partaking in - but MK is delighted, kicking their feet so happily that they almost fall off their chair on three separate occasions.

One by one, Frisk crosses items off their list, and when they do, you ask them, _what exactly are you doing?_

They don't answer, but through the wall between your thoughts, you feel a pulse of something dangerously close to sadness. 

 _Is something wrong_? you ask.

Instantly the pulse withdraws, and once again the wall is solid, leaving nothing but a mild smile on their face that you can't really feel. 

 _Nothing's wrong,_ Frisk says. _Help me find a joke for Sans._

You could push it further, you think. The wall between your thoughts isn't very stable, after all. Even if they didn't want to tell you, you could tear it down by force and see what they are hiding. 

 _Look up something really long and complicated,_ you say instead. _No skeletons. He already knows every skeleton joke there is._

Frisk spends nearly fifteen minutes typing out an obnoxiously long joke about three rabbits all named Foot. A moment later, their phone chirps with a brief reply.  _heh. nice. you really know how to tickle my funny bone._

_:)_

_now go to bed. it's late._

_Goodnight!_

They set their cell phone on the dresser, and as they settle back against their pillows, you ask them, _was that it?  
_

_What do you mean?  
_

They sound genuinely puzzled, and their confusion puzzles you in turn.  _You went to all that trouble,_ you point out. _You didn't even get to see him laugh. Was that really what you wanted to do?  
_

_It's_ _not about me,_ Frisk answers simply. 

It feels like the right answer - the one people would expect - but it also doesn't. You can't say why, exactly, only that you think you should have goosebumps right about now. 

They'd gone to the café and they didn't even get to see the owner. They wrote a letter that said nothing. They sent a mix to someone too self-conscious to offer them their thoughts, they made a meal they couldn't eat, they told a joke to someone via text, someone to lazy to bother typing an enthusiastic response. These were all things that Frisk _said_ they wanted to do, but they were getting nothing for them. So why...?

No matter how much you turn it over in your head, it just doesn't make sense. But maybe that's the problem. Maybe Frisk just isn't someone who can make sense to someone like you. Frisk is _good._ Maybe all their goodness is beyond you.  

Eventually, they fall asleep, but you remain awake.

You could seize control, you think. You could grab their cell phone from their dresser and text somebody _something's wrong with Frisk_ before they can brush you off again. But nobody even knows you're here - you'd asked Frisk not to tell, not wanting to disappoint them with your presence. What would any of them think of a text from an apparent stranger sent from Frisk's phone?

More importantly, Frisk trusts you. There may be something wrong, but you owe them, if only because of all they'd done for you. And they would never keep a dangerous secret, not one that could hurt somebody. They may be acting strange, but everything will be okay. 

And in the end, you do nothing. 

You don't sleep, so you don't dream, not the way a living person would. You can remove yourself from the present, sinking deep inside yourself until you're almost absent, and you _suppose_ that kind of counts, but it's always felt to you like a deception. In your half-existence, all you can hope to do is ape the way of life that Frisk parades before you, but sleeping is the one thing that you can't enjoy vicariously. You turn to memories instead, falling back into your thoughts and filling all those long and lonely hours with recollections of butterscotch pie and golden smiles and _everything will be okay._

But the one problem that you've yet to solve is how to keep those memories from getting out of hand. Your options are to either lie awake in boredom for eight hours or to risk the drifting of your thoughts to ones you wish you could let go of, and that night, like almost every other night, your trancelike state of almost-slumber eventually gives way to something like a nightmare. Memories of Toriel and Asgore and Him become thoughts of faceless crowds of people and their grasping, clammy hands, and suddenly, you and Frisk abruptly snap awake, fists clenching at their sheets as they gasp. 

 _Sorry,_ you whisper. Because it's your fault, of course.  

 _It's okay,_  Frisk answers. Then, in a slightly different tone, they say, _it must have been really nice back then._

You assume they mean the tiny snatches of memory that you had accidentally shared and not the sudden nightmare, and so you answer, _yeah, it was._  

They don't say anything else, instead pulling on their sweater and running their fingers through their hair. And just like that, a new day starts. 

That evening, Alphys and Undyne come over for a marathon of Ghibli movies. You can barely follow anything that's happening onscreen, too busy watching Frisk as they sit between the two of them, arms curled around their knees. They keep things tame - no kissing during besties hangout sessions, that's the rule imposed by Toriel - but they're still so absorbed in the movies and each other that they don't seem to notice just how _quiet_ Frisk is being. They're always quiet, of course, but this is different, somehow. It's _different,_ and nobody can even tell but you. 

You have to do something, you think. You can feel that twitchy feeling coming over you, that anxiety that always makes you want to dig your nails into your skin and clench your fists and smash your furniture to pieces. But you _can't,_ because this body's not your own, and you're trapped inside of Frisk as they smile blankly at the television, the emptiness of their expression gone unnoticed by anybody else. 

Alphys and Undyne talk to Frisk, crack jokes at them, ask to brush their hair and paint their nails and do everything you're meant to do at a movie-watching-in-pajamas-party, and all the while Frisk is silent, smiling and nodding, doing as they say. You wonder if that sadness from before is still beating somewhere deep inside of them. If you're living in Frisk now, then maybe you can track it down and kill it for them, make it leave them alone. Will that help?  

They go to bed with their phone in hand. They keep it with them even when the lights go out and Undyne commands them to go to sleep, squinting at the screen in the darkness as they scroll through their list of contacts. This time, they don't text anybody, simply going through the list - once, twice, and then a third time. 

You're about to ask them what they're doing, but before you can, Frisk thinks, _tonight was nice._

_Yeah, I guess so._

You hadn't really noticed. You'd been too busy worrying. 

_Everyone's so nice._

You don't know how to answer that. At last, you just say,  _yeah._ Then, after an awkward pause - _Frisk, are you okay?_

 _I'm fine,_ they think, and in the safety of their bed, they wrap their arms around themselves, the closest either one of you could ever find to hugging. You let yourself seep through and feel Frisk's arms around their own small body, trying as hard as you can to squeeze back, sending thoughts of worry and of warmth to them, hoping that they'll feel it and will know of your concern.  

You don't want to let go. It feels like they've been fading lately, slowly disconnecting from their own life, replaced by a quiet smile and a list of duties. If you don't hold on to them now, then Frisk might slip away forever. 

But you can't. You can't cling to them, not the way you've clung to others in the past. You need to keep that barrier intact, the divider reminding you of where Frisk ends and you begin, or else you might forget. That hollow space inside of you is reserved for once person and one person only. And so eventually, you draw back, slinking back into that corner of their heart that is now yours.

Together, you fall asleep, losing yourself to thoughts of half-lived lives and a smile that you haven't seen in far too long.  

When Toriel drops Frisk off at Asgore's for the weekend, a Tupperware container of butterscotch pie sits inside their bag. They eat it with him in the garden, and as you listen to them laugh, it occurs to you that everything seems fuzzy, like you're watching on a TV set with poor reception.

The secondhand taste of the pie is muted like always, but for once, you're almost grateful. If you could taste that pie while sitting here with Asgore, then you might almost start to think that everything was back to normal, that He was waiting for you somewhere, that you could...

You don't need that shit today. 

When the pie is finished, Asgore takes Frisk to the back to show them how the autumn vegetables are coming along. Frisk doesn't know a goddamn thing about gardens, you think with a prickle of resentment, but you shove that thought as hard and deep inside yourself as possible so that none of it seeps through where they can feel it. You have no right to be upset that Asgore's telling _them_ about the carrots. He doesn't even know you're here. If it's anybody's fault, it's yours and yours alone. 

Later in the kitchen, while Frisk pours themselves a glass of lemonade, they ask, _are you okay?_

 _I'm fine,_ you answer curtly, and you almost burst out laughing. It's funny, isn't it, for Frisk to be the one concerned and you to be the one insisting nothing's wrong? 

Frisk takes a sip of lemonade. It's so sour that you don't have to try very hard to taste it for once. You don't even _like_ sour things, but you could learn, you guess, if that's all you're ever going to be able to taste anymore. 

 _I'm sorry,_ Frisk tells you, and they lift the glass to their mouth and slowly drink. Their mouth puckers slightly when they do, but they let the sharp-lemon taste spread across their tongue for another moment longer before swallowing. 

_For what?_

_That you can't be here too._

Ah. They'd picked up on your resentment after all. 

You don't answer right away, instead letting your attention drift to the kitchen window where you can see Asgore watering. You can almost hear him humming. If you could just ignore all the small, inaccurate details, you might even be able to convince yourself that you're back in New Home, that Toriel is just around the corner.

 _This is good enough,_ you say, and it's not, it's  _not,_ but it's more than you had ever hoped to have again.  _This is what I wanted for them._

_You gave up so much._

Not enough. Not if He didn't get to share the sunshine too. You'd have given up a whole lot more if He could be here. 

 _Did I?_ you ask. 

 _It's not fair,_ Frisk thinks, and they take another sip of lemonade, gazing out the window with you. _You don't get to eat proper food or talk to anybody. You have no choice but to stick with me even when I do things you don't care about. You had a whole life before. Now you just get leftovers._

You could say that it's okay or you don't mind, but you don't want to lie. They'd picked up on your bitterness before; they'd feel your dishonesty. You settle for _it's not like I blame you,_ because that, at least, is true. _It doesn't matter if it's fair,_ you add. _It's the way things have to be._

 _I guess so,_ Frisk agrees. _What's necessary isn't always fair._

You know that technically they're right, but the moment Frisk agrees, you want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them as hard as you possibly can. You want to tell them _no,_  tell them _you deserve what's fair,_ and fuck, maybeneither one of you deserved what you actually got.

But then Asgore turns around and sees them standing in the window, and he beckons them outside, and Frisk sets their glass down on the counter and everything's forgotten as they step back out into the autumn sunshine. 

When they're back at Toriel's, you realize that their list is almost finished.

You don't know what that means. 

In theory, it's so innocent - _just some stuff to do,_  Frisk had said - but something about it seems so cold now, like a countdown. You don't know what will happen when they're done.

You know the likeliest answer is 'nothing,' but you can't be sure, not when you can't hear their thoughts. Not when they won't tell you.

Maybe you're just being paranoid. 

Either way, there's only one thing left to do.

It comes that Sunday evening when Toriel comes to say goodnight. She tucks Frisk in, smoothing down their hair as she presses a kiss against their forehead. When she murmurs, "Goodnight, my child," a pang of longing courses through you. It's sharp enough that you're absolutely sure that Frisk can feel it, but nothing about their manner betrays that they picked up on it at all.

With a tiny hand, Frisk beckons Toriel even closer, and when she leans in, they whisper, "I love you, mom." 

Her eyes are very, very bright when she leaves. 

 _You spoke out loud,_ you say the moment that she does. 

_I did._

_Why?_

_I wanted her to know. It's important._

Why is it important? you want to ask.  _She already knew,_ you say instead. 

_Thank you._

In the dark, Frisk sits up and fumbles for their backpack, taking out the list. They cross off the final item with a pencil, and they fall asleep soon after, leaving you to dream of mountaintops and falling. 

You don't know what exactly you're expecting when the list is done, just that something will _happen._ But in the morning, Frisk wakes up and makes their bed, gets dressed and goes to breakfast. When they arrive at school with Toriel, they hug her goodbye, signing _I love you_  before they go to class, just like they always do. They go to class, they do their assignments, and everything is normal. Once again, you almost feel let down. You pretend you don't know why. 

When school lets out, Frisk doesn't wait for Toriel. 

 _Where are you going?_ you ask when you notice what they're doing. They're walking through the playground and towards the street with a sense of purpose, not dawdling by the swings they usually do when Toriel is busy. 

 _Going to the bus stop,_ they reply. You fall silent. Usually they just walk home if they don't get a ride, but it _is_ a bit of a long way- maybe they don't feel like it today. 

But they don't stop at the bus stop you're expecting. They don't even hesitate. They see it and keep going. 

_What the hell?_

Frisk doesn't respond, marching steadily ahead, ignoring your every protest as the busy streets around you grow quieter and quieter. 

The bus stop that they finally arrive at is a lonely one, sitting off the edge of largely-abandoned stretch of road. In the distance you can see the city and the shadow of Mt. Ebott. 

Somewhere between the two sits the house where they now live with Toriel.  _I_ _f you keep walking, you'll be home in half an hour,_ you point out.  _Toriel will be upset, but -_

Frisk ignores you, instead sitting down upon the creaking, peeling bench. Their feet barely reach the ground, the tips of their sneakers brushing against the gravel underneath the bench.

 _What are you doing?_ you demand, not even trying to conceal your irritation.  _Do you even have bus fare?_

They pat the pocket of their jeans. You hear the jangling of change. If you could scowl, you would. 

If they didn't want to walk, why didn't they get their usual ride from Toriel? And if they had somewhere else to go - an errand to run, a friend to visit - they would've gone into the city, not wandered over to the outskirts. And Frisk says nothing, doesn't even make a sound, merely pulling out their phone and scrolling through the list of contacts. Mom. Dad. Papyrus. Sans. Undyne. Alphys. Names and names and names and names, names of people you yourself have known and some you might have even loved.  

_Where are you going?_

Silence. 

 _Answer me!_ and you are shouting now, as much as one can shout when they're just a voice in someone's head. _What the hell are you doing? Why are you -_

 _Chara, it's okay,_ they interrupt. _I'm just finishing my list._

_There wasn't anything about getting on a bus to nowhere on your stupid list!_

_Not nowhere,_ they interrupt again. _Mt. Ebott._

"What the _fuck!"_

The words fly from your shared mouth before you can stop them, and in that desperate moment of sheer, unbridled panic, whatever barrier there was between you and Frisk is broken. Suddenly, _you_ are the one in the body, _you_ are the one sitting on the bench, _you_ are the one who feels the evening chill, and you don't hesitate even for a moment. Already you can feel Frisk scrambling to regain themselves again, and even though it kills you - even though you, of all people, know that terrifying need for full control of oneself - you don't let go. Instead you stand, and with clumsy strides, resisted at every turn by your own body - the body you're inhabiting, at least - you force them to stand up and walk away.

 _Chara, let go,_ Frisk commands. Their inner voice is as soft as ever, but you can feel their anger, carefully repressed, carefully restrained. 

"No!" you snap. The voice you're speaking with is hoarse from years of disuse. Guilt twists in your stomach more and more with every word said in Frisk's voice that they didn't choose to speak themselves, but you can't stop; if you relinquish your hold even slightly, even just to give their voice a break, then Frisk will have an opening to slip back in and do whatever the fuck it was that they were going to do. "You said something stupid, and we both _know_  it's stupid, so we're going _home_  and - "

You don't get to finish your sentence. Your body seizes up, legs twisting together as Frisk tries to make you turn around, and then you're falling, landing face-first in the grass by the highway with an _oof._ But no bus driver is going to stop and pick up a hobo lying on the grass, so you don't bother standing up, instead focusing your energy on keeping you and Frisk down on the ground. 

 _It's okay,_ Frisk says, voice still gentle, as though they hadn't said the single most terrifying thing you'd ever heard a person say mere moments ago. _I have a plan. Everything will be all right._

"Tell me," you choke. Despite how gentle their voice is in your head, they're still trying to usurp you. It's a struggle just to speak, but you won't give in. 

 _I have a plan,_ Frisk repeats.  _I didn't put it on my list because I knew you'd try and stop me, but it's for the best._

 _"What_ is?" 

 _I'm going to Mt. Ebott and letting Asriel have my soul,_ they say, as though it's just that simple. Just that obvious.  _Then you can have my body and he can go back home with you._

You think you're going to die. 

Your instinct is to scream and drive your fists into the ground, to bite off your own tongue, to tear yourself to shreds and let the pieces scatter, but this body isn't yours and you need to be as kind as possible to it, even when it's owner's doing something foolish, because they are going to get it _back_ and they are going to _need_ it. 

"That won't work," you say when the urge to scream finally fades. 

_I need to try._

"No you don't! Who told you _that?"_

They don't answer, but you already know. The answer is,  _everybody._ Every single person that they knew had told them this was their duty in one way or another, even you, especially you. Even if you hadn't meant to, you hadn't kept it hidden well enough.  _You are the future of humans and monsters,_ he'd said, and you can see the expectations in their eyes, feel their disappointment as you fumble, taste those bitter flowers - 

Maybe Frisk can feel how sick you've suddenly become, because they're no longer fighting. They've instead retreated to their own private corner of themselves, giving you the space you need, even when you've gone and stolen their body like a total jackass. 

 _This is what everybody wants,_ Frisk tells you when their - your - heart has finally stopped pounding and you feel like you can breathe again.

They say it like it's the most obvious possible solution, and it makes you want to scream even more than hearing Asriel's name had. 

 _You want it too, right?_  they prompt when you say nothing. _I know how much you miss Asriel. You've tried to hide it, but it's really obvious. This way you can have him back._

"But that's not fair - " 

 _It's the way things have to be,_ they answer evenly. 

Their voice is an echo of your own and you have never hated yourself more than in that moment.  

As they're no longer fighting you, you heft yourself upright, shifting your position so that you're sitting on the grass and not lying face-down in the dirt. "Nobody wants this," you say, and in the distance you can hear the roar of passing trucks. "Everyone would miss you." No one stops to ask if the child sitting by the road needs any help. 

 _It's what has to happen,_ Frisk thinks with the same tranquility as always. Yet it's not tranquility at all, you realize. It's resignation. It's dull acceptance.  _Everyone deserves their happy ending. It's not fair that you and Asriel don't get yours. I've had a year with everyone, I've said all my goodbyes, and now I need to do what needs to be done._

It hits you so suddenly and sharply that it's all you can to do keep from punching yourself in anger. 

" _That's_ what the fucking list was!" you say. "Frisk, you _asshole,_ I asked you so many times and you said - " 

 _They were things I wanted to do,_ they say, and of course. Of _course. It's not about me,_ they'd said, and of  _course_ even their own suicide wouldn't be about them. They would do whatever they thought would make everybody happy, never stopping to think about receiving thanks or having it be known that it was them. Of _course_ they'd think an extra tip or a shitty joke would be an adequate apology for tearing themselves out of everybody's lives.

And they went about their plan so quietly, too - they must have been told at some point that _this_ was the way to be, that _this_ was the way to live, that they were unimportant, that they could be sacrificed, and who the fuck would tell them that? Who taught them that it was okay to suffer if it made them useful?

Frisk would never keep a secret that would hurt another person, but you were right beside them for the biggest secret of all; the secret of all those resets and their deaths. They would never hurt another person, but they would absolutely let themselves be hurt if they thought there was no other choice, and _how_ could you not have seen it? All those small farewells, all those tiny ways to say goodbye, all those final memories - it had been right there in front of you in paper and in ink and you still hadn't seen it. 

You didn't _want_ to see it, something whispers. Frisk had wanted you to look away and you had looked away. 

 _Shut the fuck up,_ you tell that hard, uncharitable part of you. You could blame yourself - you always did that anyway - but now was not the time. Frisk was more important than your own ridiculous self-pity. You might be a shitty person, but that didn't mean Frisk needed to pay for it, let alone waste their time reassuring you.

"Asriel wouldn't want this," you say. You don't know how to be comforting, but _fuck_  are you trying, because this needs to work. Frisk needs to believe you. "If it worked and he came back, he'd just start crying, and then he'd want to know how I could have let this happen, and then we'd have to find a way to get you back and make things right, and  _no one_ would be happy."

 _But_ _you -_

"We're not _you,_ Frisk," you say, and your voice, Frisk's voice, is growing just a little stronger as you speak. You take it as a sign that you're beginning to approach the right thing to say. "We can't replace you. Even if you gave your soul for him, everyone would just move on to missing you. It would be a waste of time."

 _But this is my responsibility,_ they think. _I'm not the one who matters here._  

And you _know_ that that is something they'd been taught, something that has never left them. You can hear it perfectly; _the future of humans and monsters._

Your fists clench. Your throat grows tight. 

"I know you think you have to save us," you say, and who are you even talking to anymore? To Frisk? To yourself? To both of you? "But that's not right. You have a home now, and family, and friends. You _deserve_ them. You shouldn't have to give them up, not...not even for Asriel," and your voice - Frisk's voice - only cracks a little when you say his name. 

 _It's for you too,_  Frisk thinks, but their inner voice is weaker now. It's trembling. You think of how it felt when they held themselves, all bones and scars and bruises. They're so small. They're so _small._ Who didn't keep them safe?  _It's not fair, but things haven't been fair for you, either. Everyone should get a turn, right?_

"No, _not_ right," you say, because once again you're in a body with a smile plastered on its face despite the tears that are spilling over. Are they your tears? Are they Frisk's? Does it even matter? 

_I had a year. It's your turn now._

"I don't _want_ a turn, not if you have to give yours up," you retort, and everything inside of you - every memory and feeling and whatever makes you _you,_ whatever keeps you burning here inside of Frisk, all of that is aching, because even though you're saying this, you _get_ it, more than you can stand. You'd thought the exact same thing yourself once, many years ago, but nothing that had followed had been anything you'd wanted and you will _not_ let Frisk make the same mistake. They deserve better than to choke on buttercups. 

(And, like a tiny revelation: _maybe I deserved better too.)_

"I don't want to have to use your body forever," you say. While still on your knees, you wrap your arms around them and yourself in a facsimile of a hug. "You're too small, okay? It's no good for me. I'm used to being taller. So we'll keep looking for a way to get my own back, and then someday we'll get Asriel, and _that'll_ be our happy ending. Nobody has to die."

Frisk doesn't reply. You squeeze them even tighter, thinking every thought of love and safety that you have, and gradually, the wall between your hearts dissolves.

When it does, you're struck by every hidden fear that Frisk's been clinging to, every painful thought that they'd accepted as inevitable. But even though it's overwhelming, you don't disappear. Instead you rise above it, and your beings intermingle in something even deeper than a hug, and in that moment, you _know._ You know their desperation and the loneliness that you had always thought was yours alone, and you hope that they can feel yours, too, that they know they're not alone, that you have always been there and always will be, and you tell them, "Everyone really loves you, Frisk." 

At those words, Frisk seems to come alive again with a sensation like plunging head-first into icy water. They resurface with a gasp, and then you and Frisk are there together, sitting on the grass beside the highway as the sun sets behind the city skyline.

"Are you sure?" they say, and you say "I'm sure", and they say "I don't want to go", and you say "you're important", and you both say "I'm sorry", and it's all in the same voice and you're not sure which of you is speaking at any given time, but that's okay because it's both of you and  _for_ both of you and you will say it as many times as either of you needs. 

You hook the pinky of your left hand with the pinky of your right, and to both Frisk and yourself - you now and you before and you forever - you say, "We don't need to save anybody but ourselves." 

 _Ourselves_ is you, and it is Frisk, and someday soon it may be Asriel again. _Ourselves_ will be be as wide or narrow as you need, but it will always be your choice, never shaped by fear or duty, and from now on, that will be the most important rule. 

Frisk squeezes your pinkies, and you know that it's a promise. 

On the horizon you can see the silhouette of the bus that would have taken them to Mt. Ebott. You don't go back to the bus stop. Instead, you and Frisk start walking, and walking, and walking, and as you do you realize that the hollow space inside of you doesn't feel so empty anymore, and then finally, you're home. 

Toriel is angry, of course, but you're safe.  _Frisk_ is safe. That's all that really matters. 

There's so much loneliness and guilt that occupies this half-existence of yours. You try and justify the way you linger, but it's hard when you can see so little worthiness inside of you. But Frisk is good; Frisk is worthy. And if the way you linger means that you can help them know that, then maybe everything really _will_ be okay. 

The list of their goodbyes goes into the garbage, and when they fall asleep that night, you do your best to shape their dreams into something soft.

This ending isn't perfect, but for now, it's all you need. 


End file.
